


End of the Line

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Shaky Hands", Character Study?, Major Spoilers, Red Dead Redemption mission, Spoilers, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, final mission, first ever prompt series actually, first ever whumptober!, the mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 11:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, #2: "Shaky Hands"Arthur had always tried to end lives quickly, show some sort of mercy. But as he climbed the mountain, pushed his body passed its limits, he found himself unable to. Found himself leaving behind screaming Pinkertons, wounded but not dead, and was unable to put them out of their misery. He only had so many bullets, and he needed to keep their attention on him, give John as much time to escape as he could.





	End of the Line

Arthur had never been a good man, but in the end, he had tried.

He’d always tried to give people a good death. Put a bullet between their eyes, through their hearts. Make it so they didn’t have to suffer. So many other outlaws didn’t bother, even reveled in it: dragged their victims with a lasso, shot them in a lung so they’d drown in their own blood, or shot them just so so the’d die slowly while they made their escape, not able to make chase.

But he took pride in his aim, in being able to effortlessly put a man down with a single shot. Guns were as much a part of him as his own hands, and it was instinct to him to flick the barrel up just-so, put his opponent down near-painlessly.

He wasn’t always so kind, though. He had been known to beat men to death with his own hands, to beat them to near death, leave them to suffer. To spend the rest of their days unable to move below the waist, to be slow like Tommy. To beat a man bloody for only a few dollars, if that. 

But after being diagnosed, he had tried to only ever show mercy. Stopped beating folk, let them off with warnings, maybe threats. Used his gun only if he had to, gave them quick deaths when he was pushed to it. He would never be a  _ good man _ , but he could try and make some amends.

  
  


But in the end, he couldn’t even do that.

Couldn’t grant the Pinkertons a quick death—no matter how much he  _ despised _ them, how much he wanted to pin them down and  _ punch _ and  _ punch _ and  _ punch _ , they were just working for a paycheck, and even the worst of people deserved an easy death—as he and John fled up that mountain.

In the beginning, he had. Had fired quick shots over his shoulder, each bullet dropping a Pinkerton, landing in their heart, between their eyes. Had finished off the ones that John had only wounded, howling and scrabbling on the ground, staggering around dumbly.

But once they had to run on foot, once their horses had died, once he had sent off John with his blessing and started to climb the mountain with only his revolver at his side, as his lungs burned more and more and he  _ couldn’t _ breathe, his vision wavering and a stag sometimes running alongside him, his shots began to go wide.

His hands shook, more and more. He coughed, fighting for breath, gun wobbling in his hand as he lined it up with the head of a Pinkerton, their glasses gleaming in the moonlight, and fired. A cough tore from his throat, and the gun jolted—the shot hit the man in his shoulder, and he howled in pain, dropping his rifle and clutching it. Arthur cursed, chambering another bullet, trying desperately to steady his hands, to steady his vision, to stop himself from swaying, as he fired again. The man wailed, dropped to the ground and thrashed, the bullet going down and left from where he’d aimed as the gun wobbled, striking him in the lung.

Arthur wanted to put him down, but he only had a few bullets left. He had to slow them down, keep them from following John from as long as he could. So if that meant wounding instead of killing, then that was fine. He hadn’t been a good man, and no matter how hard he tried he never would be, it seemed.

So he re-loaded the gun with his last few bullets and leaned up to fire, not taking the time to steady his shaking hands, unaware of the footsteps rushing towards him.


End file.
